


Afterparty

by gala_apples



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bisexual Male Character, F/M, High Sex, M/M, Public Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: “Last night, you and all your friends, you were out there yelling and kissing and just grabbing each other’s butts and giving each other compliments.”-Bart, 2x06





	Afterparty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'altered mental states' for seasonofkink. 
> 
> To me the concert scene seemed exactly like my past experiences with E, so I wrote it that way. I know some people think there are consent problems with intoxicated people having sex, but I'm not tagging for dub-con because all of them are equally on board.

This isn't the first time Todd's felt like this. This glorious, pure, innocent way. Fuck, is this good. Like being ten years younger, when yeah, he was an asshole doing shitty things, but none of said shit had hit the fan yet. 

It was Tina’s idea to keep the party going at the station. DJ Applesauce didn’t get hit by the spell, or at least his manager didn’t, which meant despite the whole audience being in the middle of a hours-lasting mood, the concert had stopped seemingly abruptly. Todd is sure the whole crowd dispersed to a hundred different afterparties, no one ready to call it a night. He’d been about to deploy his Mexican Funeral skills to find him and Farah and Dirk a place to go when Tina had stumbled up with a few people in tow, announcing to the general vicinity that if anyone wanted to keep things going in a jail, follow her. What were he and Farah to do, _not_ go with?

It’s funny, how quickly the station’s devolved into happy anarchy. There are fifteen, maybe twenty people in here, scattered amongst skewed and disheveled furniture. There’s fabric strung around the support beams, and makeshift bongs and beer bongs everywhere. There are files all over the floor, and even if they never tell Sheriff Hobbs about tonight, he’ll guess because glitter doesn’t really come off things. One of the women who came brought a whole makeup kit with her. It’s been a pleasure, watching her paint her craft on people’s faces. Todd’s worn eyeliner and mascara and black lipstick before, needing a bit of contrast in the white glare of floodlights plugged into a basement outlet. Hazel doesn’t treat him with those, however. Instead she thumbs blue glitter across his face, just the right shade to make him feel strong. Todd wants to watch her stroke soft bristles over Dirk’s skin, wants to see the colours she thinks he is. Are they the same that he sees?

“Being part of the music scene brings you opportunities for lots of things, you know?”

They both nod and it brings a huge smile to Todd's face. He knows they don't know. This is Farah's first concert, he has that from her own mouth. And it _must_ be Dirk's, too. He was locked up his whole teenagehood. Todd doesn't know who he feels sorrier for. Except he can't feel sorry, because he's so loved. They love him so much they're agreeing to a statement they know nothing about, to support his story.

Todd’s not so lost in his sentiment that he doesn’t know he’s feeling it because he’s been altered. Punk's not the first genre you think when you think E, half the genre is straight-edge for godsake, but dealers and friends of friends discriminate a lot less than someone who's blown their entire paycheck on entry fees for concerts every night of the week, and the wardrobe to go with. He’d had more than his fair shake of slightly disreputable individuals approach after a Mexican Funeral concert asking if there was anything he was looking for. He knows he’s high, and he’s happy to be so.

“I’m really happy that you got to have your first concert,” Todd tells Farah earnestly. He’s pretty sure he’s repeating himself, pretty sure he said it at the concert, and again in the car, and before they flipped this couch on its side to use as a makeshift blanket fort with the lone unzipped sleeping bag they found. It’s a statement worth retelling. The punk scene gave Todd so much that he can’t help but be nostalgic. He didn’t steal because he was giving up on the band and the life. He’d thought they’d get through it. Get a loan from Vic’s mom, or that Ross would tap a credit line. 

“I think everyone here is really happy that they went to this concert,” Farah replies. 

Todd doesn’t have to ask Farah if she’s ever done drugs before. Dad like hers, family like hers, there’s no way. Her brother’s in Homeland Security, for fucksakes. Honestly, he’s just pleased that she’s not freaking out over lack of control. And that Dirk’s not bouncing off the walls. They’ve had a few conversations with outsiders, but he hasn’t been noticeably holistic yet. Unless there was fate in the way he came to be wearing a pink fur jacket, but Todd doubts it.

The sight of Dirk in the rosey fur makes Todd look closer at what he's wearing to blend in. Blue jeans under thin brown suspenders and a tiny patterned white button up. It's sheer disappointment, as much as something negative can cut through the drugged haze he's in now. “This genre's clothes suck. Man I miss punk clothes.”

And Mexican Funeral was punk, obviously. Todd could argue about the specifics, like garage vs crust, for hours but that's kind of elitist and Dirk and Farah wouldn't care. Todd remembers getting some shit from classic Sex Pistols Only types, but he’s never considered his band anything but punk.

Dirk reaches a hand out and puts it on Todd’s suspenders. “I think you look the loveliest lovely, Todd.”

Todd clamps his hand over Dirk's. It's so nice of him to say. The world really is full of fantastic people. “Thank you, but punk clothes are just... There's nothing like the taste of licking the metal spikes on a belt before pulling their black jeans down. It _lingers_ , even once your tongue is coated with jizz.”

It takes a second to parse their reactions, high as he is, but they're surprised. 

“Wait. Are you telling me-” Farah starts.

Dirk interrupts. “Todd, do you maybe possibly happen to be not straight?” He asks in his piecing things together voice, which sends a shiver down Todd’s spine. That voice, and all the things that come with it, are part of how Dirk changed his life, just like Todd explained at the concert.

Like most bisexual men growing up where and how he did, Todd is semi-closeted. It's not that he's actively hiding it. It's just that if he's not dating a man, people don't need to know. He doesn't need to put something into the universe that he knows he'll just be shit on about. And it's not like he truly dates guys anyway. It's a lot easier to hook up with a man than to date one. It's not that he hid it from Farah, it just didn't need to be mentioned.

Farah laughs, delight woven in her voice. “This is the second time this week that I’ve been prompted to think about you with men. I was worried before, about liking it. But I’m too altered to feel the societal expectation to be the upset girlfriend. And I like it. You suck dick, you have sucked dick and you might again, and I like it.”

“Might again?” Todd is too high to even be surprised that Farah’s cool with bisexuality, not the usual response of other girlfriends. Ex-girlfriends. What he’s really focused on is what she just said. “You know I don’t ever want to break up with you, right?”

The way Farah’s grinning, fiercely and unapologetically, is intoxicating. “My family cared so much about so many normal things. They didn’t divorce, not because they were so puritan, but because they’d all found the man or woman they wanted to be with forever. I still like the idea of devoting yourself to what works. I just don’t think it has to be monogamy. Does it? You can like men, and me. We can work forever-”

“Yeah-”

“-with Dirk beside us.”

“What?” Talk about a record scratch.

“Todd Brotzman, don’t even try it. Do you know how obsessively you’ve been searching for him?”

Todd would argue it’s been platonic, every last minute of driving and begging the universe for leads. He thinks it’s true. But that argument would get away from this moment. This intoxicated, magical moment where Farah is awe inspiring in a letterman’s jacket like the cute jocks Todd never could hook up with in high school. This moment of Dirk in a pink fur jacket borrowed from a stranger. Farah doesn’t need to be factually correct to be right.

Todd leans forward, hands planted on the worn flannel of the sleeping bag covering their lower halves. He whispers into Dirk's chin, “can I smell you?” 

It's so weird. He's suddenly feeling no better than an animal, in the best of ways. He’s just realised that all that really matters is eating and sleeping and fucking, except he's rolling too hard -or whammied, whatever- to want to eat food, or be physically capable of sleeping, so all that's left is fucking, and marking his territory.

Dirk doesn't actually answer. He just springs to his feet and begins stripping. Time shifts, and the three of them are on the floor, all as naked as the day the beautiful chaotic universe let them begin to exist. Todd's head is on Dirk's thigh and groin. His nose is buried in Dirk's pubes, which smell so much of the man of him that Todd could almost cry. Farah's higher up, on Todd's right, Dirk's left. Her head is on Dirk’s chest, like she's listening for a heartbeat, hand splayed on his ribcage.

And then it changes. It goes from static to dynamic in an instant. Todd feels so full of love and generosity, which is an elusive feeling in his sober life. He knows what Dirk wants because he knows what all non-asexuals want, the thrill of someone else on them. Todd raises onto his elbows and inhales Dirk's dick. It's been a while, but it's not the sort of thing you forget how to do. To hell with riding a bicycle, try tracing the bumpy centre vein with the tip of a tongue.

Todd is proud of the show he’s putting on. He knows Dirk is liking it, if the undulation of his hips means anything. He knows Farah’s entertained, because she’s got her hand on her breast. There’s also a decent chance the various concert kids are enjoying it. No one is hovering inches away, but they’re not exactly concealed. Todd doesn’t have to feel bad, because he knows Tina carded everyone before letting them come in. No minors here. Grown ass adults are allowed to watch someone else have sex, if they want.

Todd remembers with such iridescent crystal clarity how E felt when he'd start a repetitive movement. Doing the same motion over and over was so satisfying. It's funny how he's doing the same now, open jaw and bobbing head, for a totally different reason. It’s not chemicals and brain chemistry, it’s magic and connections of the universe, but it’s still a man’s cock halfway down his throat.

He thinks that’s how they’re going to come. He’s going to make Dirk come, he’s going to spill himself on the floor, and Farah will probably be all hot-competent and jerk herself off, sexy-efficient. Except maybe Dirk’s been thinking about a whole range of things in his two months locked up, because all of a sudden he’s pushing Todd away and declaring that he has ideas. 

Ideas that evidently involve him getting up. Todd feels lonely the moment Dirk shucks on a pair of underwear - _Todd’s_ underwear, mmm- and climbs over the tilted couch, leaving them. The only drawback of E is apparently also present with magic; gathering people is a blessing, losing them is heart wrenching. Todd soothes himself by making out with Farah. She’s stunning, in every sense of the word. He’s so grateful to have someone like her around. A literal ride or die, considering the roadtrip and the risks they face.

“I have found lubrication!” Dirk announces, scrambling back over the couch. “And look what it came with! Trousers that are properly punk. Aren’t they?”

Dirk is holding a pair of leopard skin jeans. Realistically they probably came from a day glo shirt and shutter sunglasses wearing electronica fan, but isolated from the plastic and neon, Todd can see these jeans in his scene.

“You’re the best, Dirk,” Todd informs him, then goes in for the kiss.

They end up fucking like a train, Dirk in Todd in Farah. The borrowed leopard skin jeans are halfway up Dirk’s legs, the tight fit a strange form of bondage. Dirk doesn’t jackhammer his prostate like he lived most of his life in a government facility, but what does Todd know? Having met the Rowdy 3, and Bart, would it really be surprising if another of the projects had a wild sex life and experimented with Dirk? Todd lets Dirk’s rapid motion inform how he fucks Farah. He doesn’t want to be arrhythmic. If her slippery wet heat is anything to go by, Farah likes the tempo too. 

Todd does his best to keep his hands on Farah’s breasts the whole time he fucks her. They’re luscious, and they deserve it. He kisses her wetly, cranes his neck back and attempts an open mouthed kiss with Dirk that’s really more a slide of lips on chin. Dirk’s thrusts are making his eyes start to cross, but Todd wants to look sexier than that for Farah, so he flares them wide and pinches her nipple and jesus _god_ is this non-stop fucking good.

Todd comes with a groan some time later. It’s a sound he’s made into microphones, driven the sound of sex into the waiting ears of fans for years. It means more made against Farah’s cleavage. Music is music, but Farah and Dirk can be his everything. He’s allowed to be greedy in this, without being a bad person. Their touch and the love magic floating around him confirm it.


End file.
